


Like Ghosts

by Klitch



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:19:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5608309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klitch/pseuds/Klitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Saruhiko...doesn't it hurt?"<br/>"No. This is the only way it doesn't."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> My gift for Sarumi Secret Santa, for Maru. Any excuse to write some angsty Green Saru meeting Yata.

Yata leaned morosely against the couch, staring out at the rain outside. His head hurt and he was tired of sitting around, but he didn't exactly have anything else to do. 

Kusanagi and Anna had left for the school island about ten minutes ago, to talk with the Silver King one more time. Kamamoto was out too, helping to round up the rest of Homra and trying to find some clues as to where the Green King could be hiding. And Yata... 

Yata was sitting alone in the bar, staring at his watch and the three unsent emails he'd started and hadn't finished. All three said more or less the same thing, and all three were for the same person. 

“Saruhiko...” Yata's fists clenched. He still couldn't quite wrap his head around it. Saruhiko, becoming one of the Greens...it didn't make any sense. Not that anything Saruhiko had done since leaving Homra in the first place had made any sense to Yata, but this was almost _worse_ somehow. Yata had been trying recently, he really had, trying to understand why Fushimi had left Homra. He'd thought that okay, maybe if he understood then they could finally talk about it and maybe something would change. He'd believed in that, that the day would come eventually where they could talk to each other again as friends. 

And then Saruhiko'd had to go and betray his clan _again,_ and this betrayal made even less sense than the last. 

Yata had been so worried about that bastard too, an entire month of sending emails and skateboarding around the city and checking every old haunt he could think of, trying to find where the hell Saruhiko might have gone, a small part of him fearing the worst that grew bigger everyday. He wasn't even really sure what 'the worst' had meant to him then but it certainly hadn't been _betrayal,_ hadn't been _the Greens._ Those guys had almost _killed_ Saruhiko that night way back at the surprise party, how the hell could he pledge loyalty to the King who would have had him killed if Mikoto hadn't intervened? 

Yata sighed and slouched lower in his seat. He'd been out patrolling himself earlier, just doing one more check of all the places he could think of that Saruhiko might have gone, but that search had been just as fruitless as the last one. Wherever Saruhiko was hiding, it wasn't anywhere Yata could find him. 

Yata leaned over the back of the couch and stared out at the rain, one hand idly tracing the raindrops as they dripped steadily down the windowpane. It was a gloomy day out and had been all afternoon. He wondered if Anna and Kusanagi were going to be late getting back. 

The streets outside were nearly empty and that was the only reason Yata noticed the figure across the street, moving along the sidewalk with slow and easy steps. The person wore a green jacket, hood up, and their face was impossible to be seen. 

And then the figure stopped, looked straight up at him through the window and smiled. Yata could just see the momentary flash of a knife from the pockets of the jacket and as he scrambled to his feet, heart pounding, the person began to walk away again. 

He'd been told to guard the bar, Yata knew that, but damn if he was letting that asshole get away so easily. Yata ran out the door without even bothering to grab for an umbrella. 

“Saruhiko!” The name tore itself from his throat, anger and confusion and pain all mingled inside of it, and the figure in green in front of him didn't stop walking, didn't even hesitate. Yata grit his teeth, hands clenching into fists as anger shot through him. He was being toyed with and he wasn't sure why, and it just made him even more annoyed. 

Fushimi was walking faster now, hands still in his pockets as he ducked beneath awnings and turned down winding streets. Yata was dimly aware that he was getting further and further away from the bar and that his clothes and hair were thoroughly soaked by rainwater but he kept walking, kept following after the figure in green moving in front of him. 

This could be a trap, he knew that. Even Yata wasn't that stupid. Fushimi could be luring him somewhere, planning something. 

But still, Yata couldn't simply let him go so easily, not this time. 

Fushimi turned down a side street and nearly disappeared from Yata's sight. Yata quickly picked up his pace, nearly running now in his haste to catch up. If he lost Saruhiko now, who knew when this chance would come again. 

The rain began to pound harder and water was soaking cold into his clothes. He could just spot Fushimi in front of him, steps almost weaving and despite himself Yata couldn't help the spark of worry – it had been a month that Fushimi had been missing, after all, a month of no word at all, no sign of where he'd been living, no one to be certain he ate a proper meal or went to bed at a decent time. 

Saruhiko disappeared down around another corner and Yata broke into a sprint. He rounded the corner and then very nearly tripped and fell as a hand grabbed tightly to his wrist. 

“It's not nice to follow people, _Misaki._ ” He knew that voice, recognized the dark amusement and the way each syllable of his name was stretched out to the breaking point. 

They were standing face to face in an alley between two buildings. As Yata pulled his hand back Fushimi took a step backward, one hand resting casually on the handle of what looked to be the side door of some kind of run-down hotel. 

“What the hell, Saruhiko, what do you think you're--” Yata looked up and his words broke off sharply. Fushimi was still glaring coldly down at him, hood fallen back now and just as soaked by the rain as Yata himself was. His hair was wet and tousled and suddenly far, far too familiar. The anger burning hot in Yata's veins instantly cooled, and he had to shake his head to keep the water out of his eyes. “Saruhiko. You...you're not with the Greens, right?” 

He didn't know what he expected, a click of the tongue or a burst of sharp cold laughter. Instead, Fushimi's eyes narrowed as he lowered his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he fell back against the side of the building. 

“Saruhiko.” Yata wanted to grab him, shake the answers out of him, and it took an effort to keep his hands at his sides. “Answer me already! Kusanagi-san said---you didn't do it, right? You wouldn't--” 

“Because you know so well, what I would and wouldn't do?” Fushimi spat back. There was a light Yata couldn't quite recognize in his eyes as he smiled. “I suppose I'll have to say it in a way that will even get through your thick skull. It's true, Misaki. I'm a member of jungle now.” 

Yata's mouth fell open soundlessly, mind gone momentarily blank at the confirmation of all his fears so easily given. It wasn't like he hadn't known – Kusanagi had seen it with his own two eyes, after all. But even so, hearing it straight for Fushimi's mouth was entirely different, an acknowledgment of something Yata had known but hadn't quite been willing to believe. 

“What the—what the _hell,_ Saruhiko?” Red flashed in front of his eyes – Anna in a cage, fireworks and a desperate run from a crowd in the dark of night – and before he knew it he had grabbed Fushimi by the collar, slammed him against the wall. Saruhiko offered no resistance whatsoever, smile only slightly skewed as he stared down at Yata with eyes that were almost _soft_ , almost _pleased,_ and Yata couldn't understand it at all. “How could you? The Greens--” 

“Are the winners of this war.” One of Fushimi's hands strayed to his pocket, pulled out a PDA whose screen shone with green light. “I'm not a fool like the rest of you, Misaki. I told you before, right? All I'm interested in is power. You're the one who said it himself, that the Blue King failed. So why shouldn't I go seek out something better myself, rather than standing around waiting for the rest of the kingdom to fall?” 

He swatted at Yata's hands and Yata felt his body go almost numb as he took a step back. 

“But wasn't that guy your _King?_ ” Yata felt like his head was spinning, and the rain had started to fall even harder. He felt chilled to the bone and Fushimi seemed to feel the same, clicking his tongue as he stuffed his PDA back in his pocket and turned to walk away again. 

“Don't be an idiot, Misaki.” Fushimi waved a hand as he reached for the door handle again, pulling it open easily. _“King?_ When has that word ever meant anything to me?” 

Without even a look back Fushimi ducked inside the door. Yata felt a sudden rush of near-panic – he'd just found Saruhiko, and now Saruhiko was about to disappear again – and he scrambled for the door handle before it closed, stepping inside the building. He looked around blankly for a moment before spotting Saruhiko a few feet away, unlocking a door to one of the rooms that lined the hallway and stepping inside. The door began to swing shut behind him and Yata darted forward. 

“Stop running away from me, dammit!” Yata grabbed the door before it could shut entirely. There was a moment of force to counteract his, hesitation and then a click of Fushimi's tongue and the resistance was gone entirely as Fushimi stalked inside the darkened hotel room. Yata hesitated only a brief moment there in the doorway before following him inside, letting the door close behind him. 

His face felt hot and there was rain water dripping down the back of his shirt, and dimly it occurred to Yata that he was walking straight into the enemy's den. But somehow even now it was hard to think of Saruhiko as the enemy, as though he was just a stranger in green somehow wearing the face of Yata's best friend. 

“You're an idiot, Misaki.” Fushimi was already peeling off his wet coat, throwing it over a chair with a look of distaste. “Shouldn't you be calling all your precious comrades, letting them know where the traitor's hiding?” 

“I'm not gonna call anyone.” He _should,_ Yata knew that. Whether they were still technically in an alliance with the Blues Yata wasn't quite sure, but he knew that he should at least call Kusanagi and let him know what was going on. Even so, he didn't move. “Not until you _talk_ to me. What the hell do you think you're doing, Saruhiko? The Greens...” 

“What am I doing?” Fushimi turned to face him, wet hair sending droplets of water into the air as he turned his head. The smile on his face was too wide and his always pale skin was tinged with just a hint of red around the cheeks, eyes shining with an almost feverish light and Yata wondered if they had both been standing out in the rain too long. “Isn't it obvious, _Misaki?_ You lost. We all _lost._ I don't have time to waste playing games I can't win, that's all.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his PDA again, throwing it idly up and down in his hand. “Is that what this is about? Finally wise up enough to leave those hoodlums behind and find something better, Misaki?” 

“Fuck you.” Yata's hands clenched and Fushimi's smile only seemed to widen. “Dammit Saruhiko can't you just – that's not really why you left, right? It can't be--” 

“It can't?” Fushimi cocked his head, eyes half-lidded and posture loose as he stepped closer to Yata. “Don't be a moron. This is how I always am, how I've always been. I won't remain weak forever, not like you.” 

“I don't believe that,” Yata said firmly. “Just because your King lost that doesn't mean you have to--” 

“He's not my King,” Fushimi said coldly. “Not anymore. You place too much worth in useless things, as always. 'My King?' I don't even know what something like that means. Just words, as always, thin and pointless, and only your own stupid hero worship behind them, as if that makes a King any better than anyone else.” He laughed suddenly. “But what else should I expect? You're still chasing it, right, Misaki? _Mikoto-san's ghost._ It's really sad, how you remain so chained to that worthless man's memory.” 

“Don't you say that kind of shit about Mikoto-san!” Yata's temper flared before he could stop it and he grabbed Fushimi by the shoulder, pushed him hard against the wall. Fushimi let him, body pushed hard against the wall with a bruising grip, and even so Fushimi smiled at it. Yata could feel himself shaking, cold from the rain and the twisting feeling in his stomach, the green glow of Fushimi's PDA that lit the room with an almost sickly light. It reflected there, in Fushimi's eyes and his face. Fushimi's hair was still wet and slicked close against his forehead, the ghost of the old Saruhiko still just there as though unearthed by the rain, and the green against that memory only made the tremors running through Yata's body increase. 

Yata forced himself to release his hold, breathing deep to try and calm the emotions churning inside of him. Fushimi sagged against the wall, as though he could barely hold himself up without the strength of Yata's rage keeping him upright. 

“Saruhiko...” Yata felt numb to the core somehow and his head was pounding. “I want to understand, okay? I—I want to understand you. I don't know what the fuck you think you're doing with the Greens but if it doesn't matter what I think than that's fine. I just want you to talk to me. I already let you walk away from me once without knowing anything, and because I didn't know anything it just made me more angry. So just tell me, okay? Tell me why.” 

Fushimi remained there slumped against the wall for a long moment and Yata's breath caught. Fushimi's body seemed to be shaking slightly and it took Yata a minute to realize that Fushimi was laughing. 

_“Understand_ me?” There was a deep rich bitterness there, an old wound long scarred over, and Fushimi's eyes green in the dim light. “You really are an idiot, Misaki.” 

_“Me?_ You're the one who won't say anything.” It was only a whisper, words Yata could barely form around the lump in his throat. Water was dripping down his face still but the drops on his cheeks were warm. “If you just told me what was going on, then--” 

“Then what? You'd come and play friends with me again, like children, like nothing’s changed?” Fushimi laughed coldly. “Don't patronize me. I've had enough for those games.” He was close enough that Yata could feel the warm breath against his face for just a moment before Fushimi moved away again, throwing himself down onto the bed. His wet clothes stuck close against his body and he somehow looked even thinner than normal. Fushimi leaned against the headboard, sliding a knife from one sleeve and playing with it idly as he talked. “Go home, Misaki. There's no point to you being here.” 

“I'm not leaving.” It felt petulant to say it but Yata did anyway, feet rooted to the floor. Fushimi glared at him but didn't make a move to kick him out either. 

“You're dripping on the floor.” Fushimi said it as though commenting on the weather and Yata wasn't sure what he was expected to say in reply. Fushimi had already turned away from, still absently playing with the knife as he peeled off his shirt. Yata caught a brief glimpse of the familiar knife harness before it disappeared under the bed and Fushimi sat there hunched on the mattress, knife in one hand and PDA in the other. 

“Aren't you gonna kick me out?” Yata felt somewhat at a loss all of a sudden and Fushimi clicked his tongue. 

“Kick yourself out.” Fushimi flipped the knife again, the sharp edge catching the light from his PDA, green, green, and it made Yata's stomach churn again. Saruhiko shouldn't be that color, and Yata's eyes traveled instead up and down his bare torso, fish-belly pale and sickly, tinged with blue from the cold and the wet. His hair was still the old Saruhiko's hair but his eyes were flat, and there was the old burn scar there, the charred remnants of Homra's mark. Yata felt his hand sliding up to touch his own mark, that mirror of Saruhiko's, the mark of their pride. Homra's, and his, and Saruhiko's. 

“You didn't have to leave, you know.” Yata's voice was low and chilled, a rain cloud heavy in the air. “You could have stayed with us, Saruhiko. Weren't we--” 

“Does it matter?” Fushimi clicked his tongue. Knife in one hand, green glow in the other, red mark and blue veins that stood out against pale skin, and Yata's insides that burned only red. “If you're only going to ask stupid questions then leave, Misaki. Didn't I say I don't have time for this?” 

“Then kick me out yourself,” Yata challenged. “I told you, I'm not going until you talk to me.” 

“What else is left for me to say?” Fushimi shook his head. “Is it really such a surprise, Misaki? I'm a traitor, right? You're the one who always says it. The alliance is dead, and the rest of you are wandering around blind and stupid like moles in the light. That being the case, what else did you expect a traitor to do, besides betray?” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Yata said sharply. “Doesn't any of it mean anything to you, Saruhiko? Mikoto-san, the Blue King...didn't you feel anything for them at all?” He could feel the anger rising in him again, the confusion, and his hands were shaking. “Saruhiko--” 

“Shut up.” Fushimi stood, taking a step closer to Yata. “Do you even hear how pathetic you sound? I told you, I'm not a child like the rest of you, clinging to a word as though it makes this all more noble, this pursuit of power that all of you are chasing. You say it's all for your King, put a pretty face on it to make it seem like that makes you a family, makes you someone important, someone who _belongs._ I've just seen what's underneath that, that's all. Changing colors is so easy, Misaki. Once you've cut the ties those words bind you with, the things left behind are all that matters. Power, blood and flesh. Real things, not flimsy words, respect, loyalty. _Understanding._ There's nothing to betray once you realize that. All that matters in this world is what you can hold in your hands, a mission that can be completed, a high score to be reached. I don't need Kings. I don't need clans, I don't need bonds or beliefs or loyalty to people who will only throw you away in the end.” He held up the knife in his hands and Yata's breath caught as green electricity danced along the blade. 

“You don't mean that.” Yata grabbed at Fushimi's wrist, skin cold and clammy against his own fingers. “Why the hell won't you just tell me the truth for once, dammit? Even after all this – even after all the crap we've been through, you leaving and then—then all of _this_ , with the Greens and shit and you’re _still_ lying to me--” 

“As if you know me so well,” Fushimi hissed, eyes narrowed, but he didn't pull his arm away. “Don't look at me like that, Misaki. If you think I want that, want to be the ghost reflected in your eyes, you're an even bigger idiot than I thought. I'm not your friend.” 

“Yeah you are.” Yata felt the heat rising in his face, creeping along his neck, and Fushimi's cold gaze didn't so much as waver. But still Yata said it, still he found himself looking up at that face and those eyes, and even with the green electricity dancing on the edge of a knife blade between them all he could see was Saruhiko. “I don't know what you're talking about, what it is you're trying to break. But I'm not giving up on you this time, not until I understand what the hell you think you're doing here.” 

“You're a fool, then.” Fushimi was moving closer to him, barely a breath of air between them, and water was falling from his hair onto Yata's face. “You won't ever understand me. You're supposed to hate me, Misaki.” 

“I don't hate you, Saruhiko.” It was the truth, and somehow even Yata didn't quite believe it until he said the words out loud. 

“And that's why you'll never understand me.” Fushimi's voice was low and breathy, and there was more than just green shining in his eyes. 

Yata wasn't sure which of them moved first, his head tilting up as Fushimi's dipped down, grip still tight on Fushimi's wrist as the other arm grabbed him roughly by the waist and Fushimi's movements almost frenzied as their lips pressed together, warm, too warm, and Yata could feel something grasping in the heat of that kiss, as though Fushimi thought if he pulled away that Yata might disappear entirely. 

It was an awkward struggle back to the bed, Yata's grip too tight on Fushimi's wrist and Fushimi's fingers digging into Yata's skin beneath his shirt, wet hands scrambling at soft flesh and Yata almost didn't realize what they were doing until his back hit the bed, Saruhiko kneeling on top of him. 

“S-Saruhiko...” Yata's mouth was dry and Fushimi's eyes seemed unfathomably dark as they stared down at him. “Saruhiko, I...” 

“I don't need any of those cheap words from you, Misaki.” Fushimi twisted his wrist slightly, just enough to break Yata's grip, and suddenly he was pressing the knife into Yata's palm instead, closing Yata's fingers around it. “Betrayal is so much cleaner. An act, not a word. It carves itself into your heart, and it _bleeds._ ” 

As he spoke he pulled Yata's hand forward, the blade facing outward, and Yata somehow couldn't pull away as Fushimi let the edge of the knife press itself into his body, a thin red line tracing its way in the smooth white skin. 

“Wait, Saruhiko!” Yata sputtered, a sudden spike of worry flashing through him, and Fushimi smiled widely at him. 

“It's fine.” He leaned down again, sealing his lips over Yata's one more time. “It's fine like this, Misaki. You want to understand, right? Then go ahead and mark me. That's what Homra does, isn't it?” The burn scar stood out against his skin like a bonfire in the middle of the night, and Fushimi breathed the words into Yata's ear. “Mark me, Misaki. Show me your hatred and then maybe you'll finally understand.” 

“But--” Yata swallowed hard and Fushimi's hand tightened around his. There was a smile stretching across Fushimi's face, cold and hard like a scar, and his words were low as he pushed Yata back down against the bed. 

“Don't look at me like that.” Fushimi's hand pulled against Yata's, guided the knife along the side of his neck and down towards the collarbone, just hard enough to make a mark but not enough to draw blood. “I betrayed you, remember? You and Homra, Scepter 4, the alliance...don't make such a pathetic face at your _enemy.”_

“You're not my enemy!” Yata's voice was hoarse and Fushimi laughed quietly even as the knife continued a slow arch down his body. “If you'd just _talk_ to me you stupid asshole, we could--” 

“We could what? Be friends again?” Fushimi laughed again, the sound like choking in his throat, as though he couldn't breathe unless he spit it out. “You're such an idiot, Misaki. I've never been your friend. You were just something to pass the time, that's all. It was fun in middle school, I'll admit that, but you can't stay a child forever. It's about time you grew up too.” 

“You don't mean that.” Yata's voice shook and he hated himself for it. Fushimi gave a low sound almost like a moan as the knife scored his shoulder, still not quite deep enough to draw blood. “I don't—I'm not going to believe that. You lie all the time, Saruhiko. If you think that's going to make me hate you then you're a way bigger idiot than I am.” 

“How about this, then?” Fushimi leaned in close, bare chest inches above Yata's, one hand sliding under Yata's shirt, ice-cold. His eyes were dark, hung with shadows and green lights, and Yata's pulse seemed to be pounding even harder as Fushimi whispered the words into his ear. “I heard something interesting, when I joined jungle. Do you want to know, Misaki, who it was who caused all of this, who _really_ killed your precious Mikoto-san?” 

“What the hell are you talking about, the Blue King--” 

“The Colorless King, too,” Fushimi continued. “The one who let him on to that rooftop where Totsuka-san was, who told him why he should be there.” There was almost a shake in Fushimi's voice now and Yata couldn't quite grasp the source of it, their closeness or the dampness of Fushimi's skin, the words he was speaking or the cuts across his body. “The one who did all of that, who killed all those precious 'comrades' of yours...was my new King.” 

Red flashed before Yata's eyes, blood rushing to his head – rushing out and pooling on a rooftop, Totsuka's eyes that closed regardless and nothing at all Yata could do, an empty bar on a snow-filled night, silent tears running down Anna's face and a hollowness in his chest like a funeral pyre long burned out-- 

There was something rough under his fingers and his face was wet again and it took Yata a moment to realize that he wasn't the one pinned against the bed now. Fushimi lay there perfectly still beneath him, eyes wide and smile the skeleton of a hollowed building, shaking with soft laughter and his face a mess of green light and blue shadows and the ghosts of the old Saruhiko all there, and the fingers of one of Yata's hands digging into his shoulder as the other held the knife just a hairsbreadth above Fushimi's throat. 

“You bastard...how could you?” Yata wanted to scream at him, to shake him, and his body was trembling with the adrenaline coursing through it. He didn't even want to know what kind of face he was making. 

Fushimi didn't seem to mind at all, still limp beneath him, neck craned at an angle as if he was almost asking Yata to slit his throat. Dimly Yata felt as if he might throw up. 

“Why shouldn't I?” Fushimi's hand was still on his and somehow Yata felt as though it should have been harder for Fushimi to drag his wrist down, to press the knife against Fushimi's skin again. Even so he let Fushimi's hand guide him and when this cut drew blood Yata wasn't sure if it had been himself or Fushimi who had added just that extra bit of pressure against the spot where blade met flesh. “This is how I've always been, Misaki. No loyalty to anyone, except the one who holds the power. All of you know that your little alliance was useless. I'm simply the only one with the brains to leave the ship before it sank.” 

“Is that all this was to you?” Yata felt another flash of anger that he couldn't smother and this time it was his own hand moving the knife, blood blossoming red along the lower curve of Fushimi's ribs. 

And this time a definite moan from Fushimi's lips, hips bucking upward, body pressing up against Yata's for just a moment and Yata wasn't sure if the fire building inside of him was from anger, betrayal or something else entirely. 

“That's right,” Fushimi whispered, satisfaction warring with need in his voice, and Yata swallowed hard. 

“Totsuka-san, Mikoto-san...didn't they mean anything to you?” Yata almost couldn't ask, almost didn't want to know the answer, and Fushimi's smile was like a confirmation of all his thoughts. 

“I don't bother with things that are already dead.” Fushimi shrugged, pale white shoulder and clammy skin, and his fingers felt thin and brittle where they still held tight to Yata's wrist. “This was the answer you wanted, right, Misaki?” Green danced along his fingertips. Yata tensed, suddenly on alert waiting for the attack, but the color remained sparking harmlessly across the back of Fushimi's hands. 

“Not like this.” Yata grit his teeth, feeling suddenly dizzy and sick, and Fushimi's hand on his wrist somehow held him in place even though Yata knew he could break that grip with ease if he could only bring himself to try. “What the hell is wrong with you? That guy—Mikoto-san, Totsuka-san, and still you--” 

“Because it doesn't matter to me,” Fushimi said simply. “You're still so blind, Misaki. Always yelling Homra's pride into the air as if it's something so important to you, as if it's not something that could vanish in a second if you only took a moment to think about it, bonds that are so easy to break.” The knife drew a slow circle around his lower stomach, red line and white skin, blood seeping through, and there was a definite bulge in Fushimi's pants. Yata's breath caught, a fire in his throat that blazed a trail lower down, and he felt almost feverish. “But you don't think about it. You don't think about anything, which is why you're _here,_ like an idiot, saying stupid words as if there's still something here worth holding on to. I don't need things like that. _Jungle_ has no need for things like that. All that matters is completing the mission, getting the highest score. Numbers. Patterns. Things that exist, that can be quantified.” He smiled again, almost manic, and Yata would have pulled away if he hadn't been caught by that hand on his wrist, by the sight of the knife blade pressing against Fushimi's skin. “Blood and flesh, Misaki. You understand that now, right?” 

“I don't understand anything.” Yata wanted to scream, to shake Fushimi until that smile dropped away, but all he could do was bring his hand up again with the knife, draw a line against Fushimi's shoulder, and his other hand dipped below the waist of Fushimi's pants. Fushimi's smile grew wider, like the grin of predator who had finally cornered his prey, and didn't make so much as a whimper as he leaned up to press his lips against Yata's again and the knife dug deeper into his shoulder. 

“That's it.” The words were a breath in Yata's mouth and Fushimi was pushing up hard against him, free hand twisting in the fabric of Yata's shirt and pulling him down almost desperately. The knife scored his side and Fushimi's breath hitched just slightly, a curl of his tongue in Yata's mouth as Yata pulled at Fushimi's pants. 

“Saruhiko...doesn't it hurt?” Yata could barely ask the question, light-headed and hazy, one hand already working Fushimi's pants off and onto the floor even as Fushimi kept pressing their mouths together, even as Yata's other hand grazed the knife inches above Fushimi's thighs. 

“No.” Fushimi arched his neck and placed a hand on Yata's shoulder, pulling himself up and propping himself against Yata's body. “This is the only way it doesn't.” 

The words burrowed themselves cold into Yata's bones, the chill almost enough to freeze his hands from moving, but Fushimi was already tugging on Yata's waistband and the small sounds emanating from his mouth, soft moans and whimpers and sharp intakes of breath as the tip of the knife danced its way lightly along his inner thighs was almost enough to light the fire again. 

Fire, and Fushimi's hands still sparked slightly with green, just enough to send a jolt down Yata's spine as Fushimi clumsily removed Yata's pants, other hand tightening over Yata's so hard Yata was almost certain that it would bruise. 

Holding him so tightly as if Fushimi was trying to moor himself to something, as if that grip on Yata's wrist was the only thing keeping him from being swept away. 

“Does it matter anyway? I'm a traitor, right?” Fushimi laughed quietly, face flushed, mouth pressing itself against Yata's with an almost desperate intensity, thin fingers digging into Yata's wrist as the knife teased its way over his chest. The blood stood out stark red against the chilled skin and the blue veins underneath, green lights in dark eyes, and Yata couldn't reply. The knife sliced against Fushimi's skin again as Fushimi pushed himself up against Yata, an unmistakeable hardness against Yata's lower belly and another pleased moan into Yata's mouth. 

A wave of heat washed over Yata, a rush of old longing and need that he almost hadn't realized was stirring beneath his skin, and with a sudden burst of strength he broke Fushimi's grip on his wrist. The knife clattered to the floor as Yata seized Fushimi's wrists tight in both hands and suddenly it was _Yata_ pulling _Fushimi_ into the kiss, mouths pressed together, sucking at his neck, tongue running along his collarbone where there was still that thin line of blood dripping down. 

“Saruhiko...” Yata panted out the word as he struggled out of his wet shirt, one hand clumsily reaching down to grasp at Fushimi's length. 

“It's all right.” Fushimi's hand closed over Yata's own erection, those cold but sure fingers tracing a line down the length of it, enough to make Yata's back arch with pleasure. “Keep going, Misaki. This is better, isn't it? So much better than useless words.” 

He wanted to disagree, to tell Saruhiko that he was wrong, but Yata's entire body felt like it was burning and the touch of Fushimi's fingers on his cock was enough to drive all the words from his head. He brought his tongue down on another of Fushimi's wounds instead, sucking lightly at the torn skin as he pumped Fushimi's cock. Fushimi made a sound that might have been a laugh or a gasp and his own hand moved on Yata's length, matching Yata's pace with a perfection that made something deep inside Yata _ache_ so badly he thought that he might have been the one bleeding. 

It was quick work, after that, grasping at each other clumsily, fingers on skin, heat, tongues intertwining, the words between them melting into pants and moans. Fushimi's body was pressed so close against Yata's that he could _feel_ the heat emanating from it, Fushimi's blood making small red marks across Yata's own body where skin met skin, and Fushimi's hand on Yata's cock moving with a pace that was almost frantic, almost enough to hurt, and Yata gave a strangled gasp into Fushimi's mouth as he came. 

The blood was still pumping hard in Yata's veins and it took him a moment to realize that Fushimi had pried Yata's hands off of him, had fallen limply back against the bed with his neck angled back and his eyes closed, still clearly in need of release but making no move to finish things off himself. 

“Saruhiko...” Yata leaned over him, hands pressed into the mattress on either side of Fushimi's head, and Fushimi didn't look at him. “You idiot, you're not--” 

“It's fine.” Fushimi smiled, and there was a spark of green across the bed. “I'm a traitor, right? You don't have to do anything for me, Misaki.” 

“Shut up!” Yata was almost surprised at the anger in his own voice and he immediately reached down to grasp at Fushimi again, hands closing almost roughly around Fushimi's length as Fushimi gave a strangled gasp. “I don't want to hear that from you right now, you idiot. At least...at least let me...” 

Fushimi didn't reply, only crooked his arm around Yata's neck and pulled him closer into another kiss. There was something almost tired in it, almost resigned, and Yata suddenly wanted to pull him closer, to grab him and _hold_ him, to do anything that might finally keep Saruhiko from running away from him again. 

Their bodies moved together, Fushimi's mouth closing around his with small whimpers and gasps as his body writhed underneath Yata's and then his entire body shuddered, green electricity darting up and down his body in small flecks and even Yata felt the jolt as Fushimi came. 

Fushimi kissed him one more time and then Yata fell down wearily on his side so that they were lying face to face. Neither one bothered to fix their clothes and Fushimi's hair was still damp and tousled. There was a flatness to his eyes and he raised one hand up slowly, holding it in front of his face so they could both see the green sparks that ran up and down Fushimi's palm. 

“Is—is it the same?” Yata didn't know where the words came from, heavy and tired as he inclined his head just slightly closer towards Fushimi and green danced between them, a spark and a light reflecting against the blood drying on Saruhiko's chest. 

“Different,” Fushimi muttered quietly, lowering his hand. It was only inches away from Yata's, and Yata wondered if Fushimi would pull away if Yata reached for him. “It's not...it's not a fire, but it isn't cold either. It's different.” 

“So...is that why?” It was barely a whisper, the real question not quite spoken – _help me understand_ – and Fushimi's eyes were hooded as he replied. 

“If I said yes, would you stop asking?” 

“Saruhiko...come back.” Yata's hand brushed against Fushimi's, fire against electricity, and Fushimi's expression didn't shift in the slightest. “Homra, or even the stupid Blues, I don't care, just—just come back with me.” 

Fushimi stared at him silently, eyes half-closed, and Yata could feel his own weariness all the way down to his bones. 

“You'll come back, right?” Yata could hear the drowsiness in his own voice and fought to stay awake. “You haven't told me anything yet. So...you have to come back.” 

Fushimi didn't answer, but as Yata's eyes closed he thought he could feel a touch against his hand as Fushimi's fingers entwined themselves in his. 

– 

_“2000 points.”_ The stupid cheery voice chirped from his PDA as Fushimi sat up carefully, moving slowly in order to not aggravate the stiffness in his limbs and so as to not wake Yata. Misaki was still fast asleep on the bed, hand outstretched towards where Fushimi sat. 

The cuts on his body ached as Fushimi dragged himself to his feet, slowly pulling on his clothes. His hair was still damp and his body felt so cold, colder than it had in a long time, and one hand reached up to pick at one of the thin scars Yata had left on him, fingers digging in until the wound began to bleed sluggishly. 

It had been a mission, after all. Jungle needed to install a hidden camera across from Bar Homra, and it could only be done without being seen by anyone inside. It had been a stroke of luck, that Misaki had been the only one there. All Fushimi had needed to do was keep Misaki busy until the installation was done. A simple mission, really. 

He hadn't expected Misaki to follow him so far, hadn't quite planned for all of this to happen. He'd rented this hotel room a month ago and had intended to check out a few days prior, but somehow when he'd seen Misaki there behind him, following after him, Fushimi had found his feet instinctively heading towards the building. By the time it had occurred to him where he was, how far Misaki had come after him, it had been too late to turn back. 

It was all right, though. He'd completed his mission. That was what he'd promised, after all, that he would complete any mission assigned to him. 

It wasn't like he'd let any emotion get in the way there, wasn't like he'd let anything change. It was all just another mission, another task to be completed to the best of his abilities and then discarded and forgotten about. 

Misaki shifted in his sleep, mumbling softly, and Fushimi pulled on his coat and reached for his PDA. Whether by accident or design, his fingers brushed Yata's. 

“Saruhiko...” A quiet mumble, sleepy, and Yata's fingers tightened just a bit where Fushimi had touched them. 

_“You'll come back, right?”_

Fushimi stared at him for a long moment, hands white where he held his PDA. 

Always the mission, and he kept his hands steady as he stared at the glowing green screen in front of him. Already there was a small notification in the corner, the familiar plain avatar he remembered from a night many years before, his new King calling him back home. The camera install had gone off fine, the distraction no longer needed. Even so Fushimi couldn't help but wonder how much Hisui had seen of himself and Yata, walking through the rain-soaked streets to the hotel room. Wondered if he'd seen it, the hands and the heat, if this had all been some twisted test of loyalty and even Fushimi wasn't certain if he'd passed or failed. 

Fushimi glanced back towards Misaki as he reached down to grab his shoes. In the dim light of the room he could see the way Yata's fingers clenched slightly around the blankets, empty air where another hand should be, and his face looked tired but peaceful. Something inside Fushimi ached and he ignored it, told himself it was only the lingering pain from the cuts on his body, the marks he'd allowed to be laid on his skin. 

If he stayed they could talk, he supposed, and green danced around his fingers. His hair was wet and he knew the ghost that Misaki had been looking at, knew what had been reflected in those eyes. There were things he wasn't allowed to say, at any rate, and things that Misaki wouldn't even understand if he did – _“you're used to being a traitor,”_ and laughter that was no more than blood torn from a scarred throat, the marks on his body far better than that wound festering where no one could see. So it was better this way, 2000 points for a sliver of feeling in the middle of the rainstorm, and that was all he could let this be. 

Fushimi turned and walked out of the darkened room, letting the door close shut behind him. 

_Mission complete._


End file.
